


Whiskey and Words

by Emmyjean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Best Friends, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, F/M, Gen, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmyjean/pseuds/Emmyjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock indulge in some whiskey, do some soul-searching and reflect on love and heartbreak one long, illuminating evening at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey and Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during His Last Vow, after the reveal about Mary and before the confrontation with Magnussen. Just a little drabble I couldn't get out of my head and decided to jot down.

The air in 221B was silent and stale, the only sound in the room the ticking of the old clock and the occasional clink of ice on crystal as either Sherlock or John lifted their glass to sip on the expensive whiskey they were endeavoring to polish off.

Sherlock cast occasional glances at John, obviously waiting with at least a modicum of dread for the latter to speak but willing to endure a deep conversation if it meant helping his friend. John, for his part, was stoic and grim as he continued to stare into the cold fireplace with no intention of trying to hold a conversation of any sort.

This went on for at least an hour until finally Sherlock, having drained his glass, set it down on the table beside him and observed flatly,

"We're out of whiskey."

"There's wine, isn't there?" John replied immediately, his own voice numb.

Narrowing his eyes at the kitchen, Sherlock replied, "I doubt it. I don't really..."

"No, there is," John interrupted, "I brought a bottle of red the day...when we were up to celebrate the engagement. I know you didn't drink it, so...unless Janine or somebody found it..."

"I'll check," Sherlock cut him off, standing up and striding into the kitchen.

Minutes later he was back with the open bottle, pouring the red liquid unconcernedly into the empty glasses they'd just been using for whisky. John didn't object – merely snatched up the wine and took a rather large gulp before spinning the glass in his hand and muttering,

"It's good."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked offhandedly, quirking a brow as he took a sip of his own.

"Mary had good taste in wine," John said with a brief huff of humorless laughter, and after a moment's hesitation, Sherlock replied carefully,

"She _has_ good taste in wine. Present tense."

Another huff of ironic laughter from John and a smile that looked more like a grimace as he took a second sip and said, "I suppose she still exists. In some sense of the word."

A heavy silence followed in which Sherlock's gaze was sharp and observant as he watched his friend and John tried his damndest to ignore the fact that Sherlock was watching him at all. Losing the battle, he sighed and pinned Sherlock with a look as he asked sharply,

"What do you expect me to do? To _feel_?"

Sherlock shook his head and took another drink before replying with a shrug, "I wouldn't know. Not really my area."

"Nope, don't...don't do that, Sherlock," John snapped, shaking his head, "You were the one who orchestrated the dramatic reveal, you're the one who keeps insisting she did nothing wrong..."

"Well, granted, her methods were heavy-handed, but...what's the expression? All's well that end's well?"

John stared at him, hard, for a moment before drawing a breath.

"And this is what you call 'ending well'?"

"Technically, it hasn't ended yet..."

"Right, and that's the decision I have to make now. Because everything always comes back to me, doesn't it?"

"Oh, this again?"

"Well it's the same bloody thing, all the time!" he shouted, standing up and running his hands through his hair until it stood on end, "People do things, they lie to me...manipulate me, trick me into believing some grand-scale load of rubbish...and then it's up to me to decide whether or not I can forget about it and move on like nothing's happened!"

"No one's asking you to forget it," Sherlock replied, his voice low and even, "But you're not required to _forget_ something in order to forgive it."

"Forgive it? Why should I?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows and said matter-of-factly, "Because you love her. Don't people do all manner of logically-challenged things for love? That is, after all, part of the motivation she had when she...neglected to tell you the whole truth about herself."

At this, John sneered at his friend and asked, "Oh, and you're an expert on love now, hmm?"

Shrugging once again and redirecting his gaze to his glass, Sherlock retorted, "I was under the impression that it's not a subject that lends itself to becoming an 'expert'. Although I suppose I fall slightly below the general public in terms of personal experience."

"Slightly?"

"Yes, slightly. Isn't that what I said?"

John nodded and licked his lower lip, lost in thought for a moment before he replied quietly,

"I don't know who she is anymore, Sherlock. I don't know if I loved her or if the woman I loved was just a figment of somebody's imagination – mine, maybe. Maybe hers."

Frowning, Sherlock countered, "People aren't capable of completely erasing themselves, or changing themselves into a completely different person. Believe me, I've met many who've wished it was possible for one reason or another. Mary is still Mary, regardless of her past."

"No," John shook his head, sitting back down and grabbing his glass once again, "Past is one thing. She'd still have to have what it takes to be that person. Who can bring themselves to kill without a second thought?"

Sherlock turned his ice-blue eyes onto John and said softly, " _You_ would know, wouldn't you?"

John's eyes hardened.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you and Mary aren't so very different, are you? You..."

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just... _shut up_."

Looking confused, Sherlock ventured, "I...thought you wanted me to..."

"I want you to let me vent about this and maybe to offer some comfort here and there. Can you do that, please?"

"So you want me to just tell you what you want to hear?"

"I want you to just sit there and get drunk with me and be my friend without trying to turn this into an argument that I'm eventually going to lose. Is that so bloody hard? Because I've already heard your arguments, I've heard hers and for right now, I just want to be angry and drunk. Is that too much to ask, for Christ's sake?"

A pause, and then Sherlock responded with a brief, "Pass me the bottle."

John complied, and this effectively ended the conversation for another hour while they proceeded to finish the bottle of wine, and then run out for more whiskey before coming back and planting themselves once again in their respective chairs. The flat grew dark around them and if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson coming up with sandwiches and insisting on turning on a few lamps, they would have simply allowed the darkness to blanket them as they each struggled with their own internal battles.

"I _do_ love her."

John's raspy voice startled Sherlock out of his own thoughts and left him at a loss as to how to respond. Clearing his throat, he settled on a simple,

"I know. That's what I said before."

This earned him a warning glance before John went on, "It's hell. It's absolute hell, you know? Love."

"Mmm."

" _'Mmm'_? Are you agreeing with me?"

"Well, I wasn't disagreeing."

John eyed his friend thoughtfully, shrewdly, before lifting his chin and asking,

"Have you ever?"

Swallowing a mouthful of whiskey, Sherlock asked, "Have I ever what?"

"Been in love?"

There was a long pause before Sherlock replied, "No."

"Not ever?" John prodded, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward, "Not even when you were young and stupid?"

"I was young once. I was never stupid."

"Yeah, okay. But you weren't, ever? In love? Not even a little bit?"

"Love," Sherlock sneered, "I don't believe love exists. It's nothing more than a chemical reaction triggered by..."

"Yes, alright...I know all about the chemical process and if that's how you insist on defining it, fine. It still doesn't change my question, which is whether you've ever _felt_ it? Whatever you want to call it? Or am I wasting my bloody time trying to confide in you?"

The pause that followed this question was even longer than the previous one, and for a moment John thought that Sherlock had forgotten the question. When he finally did speak, his voice was so low that it was almost a rumble.

"I...did find myself in danger of falling victim to the chemistry. Just once."

John was silent for a moment, then asked, "Irene Adler?"

Sherlock blinked and frowned at him.

"What? No."

"You didn't fall for her?"

"I was seduced by her, I'll admit," Sherlock replied honestly, swirling the liquid in his tumbler, "She was intelligent, resourceful, cunning, fearless..."

"Sounds like you."

"Exactly," he agreed, raising his brows and tapping his glass with one finger before taking a sip, "I admired her, still do. I was attracted to her...but love? I don't think so."

John weighed his options and decided he might as well take advantage of the spirit of sharing that was going on at the present moment.

"So...sex?"

"Thanks for the offer, but no. Wouldn't want to ruin our friendship."

John guffawed rather unatttractively and repeated, "Come on, seriously. You and her...did you...you know?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his mouth turning up in a private little smile as he remembered, "Twice. Maybe two and a half times, if you count the..."

"Enough, I've got the idea," he held up a hand to silence Sherlock before he went any further into details John didn't need to know, then asked with a smirk, "Seriously?"

"Just one night. The night I went to Karachi to save her life," Sherlock clarified, and John raised his eyebrows.

"Wow...impressive."

"Thank you."

There was a long pause in which John almost went to sleep, and then suddenly Sherlock's words hit him fully and his eyes popped open.

"Wait, what?" John exclaimed incredulously, "What do you mean the night you saved her life?"

Sherlock snorted and replied, "Sorry, was that phrasing confusing for you?"

"You mean she's alive? And when the hell did you go to Karachi without me noticing?"

"Yes, she's alive. At least, I assume she is...I'm not in contact with her. And it was when I told you I was going undercover in Edinburgh for the MacCallistair case."

"And what happened to the MacCallistair case, then?"

"Nothing. I made it up. There was no MacCallistair case. There weren't even any MacCallistairs."

"Brilliant," John muttered, the brief joviality he felt evaporating as quickly as it had come, "Another lie I apparently fell for hook, line and sinker. Maybe I'm just an idiot."

Sherlock scrunched his face up and drawled, "Well..."

"Shut up," John barked, and then they were quiet for another few minutes before he frowned and asked, "So then...who? When?"

"Sorry?"

"You said there was one time you fell in love."

"I didn't call it love."

"You know what I mean! So?"

"What?"

"Stop making me pull teeth for answers! So what happened?"

"I promptly addressed it and that was that."

There was a long lull in the conversation and then John finally prompted, "Well? I'm waiting."

Sherlock held John's gaze for a long time, then sighed deeply and explained, his voice muted and gruff,

"It was years ago. I'd only been consulting with the Yard for about nine months. I was standing on a wet street corner, looking down at the body of a young woman."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John interrupted, rubbing his eyes with one hand, "Please tell me you're not about to say you fell in love with a corpse."

"What?" Sherlock asked, distracted, and then frowned stormily and retorted with a brusque, "Don't be ridiculous, the corpse has nothing to do with it!"

"Then why did you bring it up?"

"I was setting the scene!"

"Yeah, it's not as romantic as you probably think it is...what with the dead body and all."

Sherlock heaved a sigh and asked testily, "Do you want to hear this or not? You're the one that insisted on me recounting this ridiculous..."

"Alright, alright," John interrupted gently, holding up his hands in submission, "Sorry. Go on."

After a tense moment, Sherlock continued,

"Lestrade was stumped – no surprise there – and to be honest I couldn't see many obvious leads myself. I was just contemplating whether or not she may have been a suicide when suddenly we were approached by a technician. Young, obviously doing field work as part of her training but not working toward field or police work as a career. It was supplemental, possibly even being done on a volunteer basis. Her hair was pulled into two absurd-looking plaits on either side of her face and was soaked from the rain. She knelt over the body and began to prod around, which instantly irritated me."

"Right, this really is heartwarming."

Ignoring the interruption, Sherlock continued as though in a trance, both the memories and the alcohol giving his eyes a faraway glaze and his voice a rich warmth as he spoke,

"I was seconds away from biting her head off when suddenly she began to speak. Her observations were concise, insightful and confident. Even brilliant. She followed them up with a gaze in my direction and...her eyes were brimming with intelligence. Gentleness. I'll never forget the feeling that passed through me. She impressed me. In the end, it was a brief, insignificant moment, and yet something about it was almost..."

A pin could have dropped in the room as Sherlock trailed off and John stared at him, his mouth agape in stunned disbelief.

"My God, Sherlock. I've never heard you talk like that before. About anything."

Sherlock dragged his attention back to his friend and pressed his lips together before finishing, "And you never will again. I proceeded to bite her head off anyway and resolved never to let on or dwell on it again. It was for the best. Sentiment ruins things, as you've clearly seen."

John shook his head, almost saddened for his friend's constant refusal to embrace his own humanity, and was silent for a moment before asking absently,

"So you never wondered after that?"

"Wondered what?"

"I don't know...what might have been? If you'd just maybe _not_ been such a bastard?"

Sherlock stared into the space between them, lost in thought, before replying in an uncharacteristically halting voice, "With everything that's happened over the past year, I...have found myself wondering if perhaps I should have...investigated further. However, as I said. It's for the best."

John wasn't oblivious to the very definite note of regret in his friend's voice, the almost defeated incline of his head and the sudden melancholy that tainted his expression. Clearing his throat discreetly, he asked,

"And you've never asked anyone about her?"

At this, Sherlock frowned at him.

"Asked them what?"

"Whatever became of her, if they know her?"

Sherlock blinked and stared at John as though he'd sprouted another head.

"I know exactly what became of her."

John raised his brows and asked confusedly, "You do?"

Sherlock pointedly turned his eyes away and drained his glass before revealing, in a voice carefully devoid of emotion,

"It was Molly Hooper."


End file.
